


A Flowergirl of One's Own

by YouLookGoodInLeather



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Elevator Sex, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Fluid Sexuality, Multi, Open Relationships, PWP without Porn, Polyamory, Public Sex, aromantic!Amren, character exploration, flowergirl!Elain, puppy!Varian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-10-25 09:05:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10761063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YouLookGoodInLeather/pseuds/YouLookGoodInLeather
Summary: The stark heat of summer ignites both madness and passion in the tourist hub that is Hewn City. Elain finds herself drawn into a relationship with a woman more goddess than mortal, falling head first into a world of polyamory and decadence. Amren finds herself a flowergirl.





	1. Nectar

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  Modern!AU, Virgin!Elain;
> 
> In which Amren is a wealthy hoarder of pretty things, and decides to buy the entirety of Elain’s flower shop, included the pretty flowers inside. Brings her to her home under the guise of wishing to employ her as her personal garden stylist, ends up shamelessly seducing her and promising her all the riches and beauty in the world.

 

Summer is sick with heat. It beats off of every white surface like a wailing child, and is sucked slow and greedy into the dark so that even shadows make Amren sweat. As someone who prides herself on always been elegant, composed, and untouchable, this inescapable heat does not suit her. Even she is covered in a sheet of sweat as she strolls down the street.

The past two weeks she spent luxuriating in her townhouse apartment. A penthouse suite, it sits on the roof of an enormous, 1950’s art deco style skyscraper. The rooms themselves are mostly walled in by planes of glass, which allows for a beautiful view, but in weather like this the place becomes a very expensive greenhouse. Fortunately, the rooftop location allows for a pool and private gardens outside, both of which Amren has barely left all summer. To prevent herself from turning into a permanently wrinkled prune, however, she’s forced herself outside to stretch her legs. She quickly finds she regrets it.

Pink, sweaty people mill about everywhere. Their tacky clothing sticks to their armpits and backs in damp patches, making Amren’s stomach turn. It is peak tourist season, and she lives in the kind of city that attracts sloppy, white tourists by the thousand in summer. The kind of people who litter and push and shove and shout without any consideration for others. As someone who had to amass her own power in a world where women, especially asian women, are viewed as weak and submissive, Amren finds their self-entitlement utterly grotesque. She knew she should have gone to visit Rhysand, her business partner and friend, for the summer, yet now he is engaged. Couples and romance hold no appeal for her. She’d rather watch sunburnt pricks sweat themselves to death, thank you very much.

Ambling down the street at a leisurely pace, she glances about the quaint cafes and knick-knack shops with bored disinterest. The city is the epitome of capitalist hipsterism, populated by a dozen ‘unique’ coffee shops - all owned by one of her own corporate rivals -  and quirky little boutiques that employ the overworked and underpaid students of the city. Their plastic smiles, so resigned to their fates as future nothings, is what gets to Amren the most. Someday, she and Rhysand will find a way to change all this, if he gets his dream. But for now, she must watch the world give into wasting time away.

Whatever. It’s summer. It’s too hot to stew about how this city is filth. It’s her own fault she’s not over with Rhysand in Velaris, not listening to Cassian moan about the heat, not watching him and Azriel and Mor have water pistol fights whilst she sits under an parasol in the shade and smirks at their antics. She refused out of petty spite, and now she is facing the consequences.

Why did she turn down her usual offer to summer out in the countryside? Her friends are all happier than ever. Azriel has finally healed enough from his own self-loathing to allow Morrigan in; Amren watched the pair of them canoodle together in a cosy corner throughout their last business party. Cassian is more Cassian-like than he’s been in years, having acquired an unexpected best friend in Rhysand’s new sister in law, a companion who is equal parts likely to drown or save him, and he loves the thrill. Rhysand is engaged to be wed to Feyre. They’re all so in love.  

For Amren, few things could be more alienating. She has never been in love, nor will she. It is not a form of attraction she has ever experienced, romance. Sexual attraction she understands most certainly, for she rivals even Cassian in the number of one night stands she has indulged in. If she loves anything, it is pleasure, it is power, it is the act of collecting something, or someone, rare. People are the same to her as the precious jewels and gems she so enjoys acquiring.

How she ended up in partnership with Rhysand, whose dream is to bring equality and a basic quality of life to all people, even she does not quite not know. He asked her. Of all the amazing people he knew through his days at Eaton and Oxford, and later Harvard, she was the one he asked to help him save the world. And upon knowing him, and those who compose his inner circle, she found the world worth saving.

Yet all the romance of late rather put her off their company, at least for now. She is waiting for the public displays of affection to die down. Cassian and Nesta are the only two she can stand recently, yet their rivalry and friendship made him so loud and brash that Amren intended to wait that one out too. Noise and heat did not go well together in her book.

Stranded in the heat and the stupor and the smell, she is bored. And sticky. And all in all, faintly angry.

She is looking for an excuse to get into an argument when she speeds up on her way back home, mentally challenging the universe to throw some particularly obnoxious tourist at her to teach some manners. Already, twelve people this summer have asked her if she can speak English. She’s ready to prove she can do so and do so dangerously.

It seems the universe has answered her prayers when she knocks shoulders with someone, bumping them into a display of flower bouquets when they stumble. On instinct, Amren reaches out and catches them by the arm to stop them falling. “Careful,” she says, her tone civil, polite. She will not sink low enough to be the one to display rudeness first. She abhors rudeness above all else.

To her surprise, her ‘victim’, for lack of a better word, does not hurl expletives or racial slurs back at her. In fact, the first thing she does is apologise. Then, with Amren standing stock still and wide eyed, the girl checks her over for injuries. When it is clear Amren is not even remotely bleeding or bruised, the girl reaches back and plucks a white flower from one of the displays. She offers it with a smile filled with more sunshine than the entire summer, and every summer before.

“Sorry. I always space out when I’m arranging the displays, especially in this heat. They all just smell so good. Please, take this, on me.” The girl, who unlike most, is no taller than Amren, leans in to tuck the small little flower into Amren’s breast pocket. The summer heat does indeed intensify the smell, wafting up the distinct scent of jasmine.

“Beautiful,” Amren says quietly, looking back at the girl. She catches her hand before she can pull back, and keeps this new stranger close to her, studying her face. The sun seems to be unknown to her lily white skin, save for a sprinkling of freckles splashed across the bridge of her nose. She is all softness and doe-eyes and full, pouty lips, so entirely girly and feminine, a flower distilled into a human body. Her skin smells of petals too, particularly of violets, and the scent of lavender clings to her brown hair, which she wears tied back in a sloppy bun, loose strands spilling everywhere. Mud streaks her brow, and spots of what looks a lot like cake crumbs cling to the corners of her lips. She is a mess. And she is wholly delightful.

“You know, where I was born, these flowers are exchanged upon wedding days between bride and groom,” Amren says, her voice low and velvet and speaking of sins not meant for such harsh light. And most of all, it is completely intentional.

“Oh,” the shopgirl says, startled, but not retrieving her hand. “Oh, sir, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply-”

Amren cuts her off with a laugh. She is not sure what is more endearing; That the girl should think she’s accidentally proposed, or that she’s mistaken Amren for a man. She certainly cannot be blamed for the latter. Amren has always been petite, but also boyish, her chest flat, her limbs slender but muscular, her hair cropped short, shorter than ever in this heat. Though she owns her fair share of chic dresses, today she is draped in a crisp white polo shirt and navy blue Ralph Lauren chino shorts. Combined with the loafers on her feet, she is the picture of androgyny, a look she has a certain fondness for - especially when it plays with pretty girls’ hearts.

The pretty girl in question is the exact opposite. She is plump and soft around all her edges, her pillowy breasts devoid of a bra, covered instead by a pretty sky-blue summer dress, spotted with little yellow sunflowers that set off the brown of her eyes and the flush in her cheeks. An apron with ‘Archeron Flowers’ printed on the front is tied around her waist, the name feeling faintly familiar to Amren, but she dismisses it. Now is not the time to worry about work. Not when someone so refreshing has swept in like a cool breeze into this despicable summer.

“I am no sir,” Amren says, stepping closer so that she stands beside the display of flowers, assessing them. “And you have no need to apologise. Any groom should be lucky to call you his bride.” Plucking a twin to the flower in her pocket, she threads it through the shop girl’s hair, tucking it behind her ear. If she had retained any uncertainties about the girl, they vanish now, for she does not reel back in disgust at the idea of a woman flirting with her. No, far better, she blushes.

“Might I know the name of the girl who almost became my wife?” Amren asks.

“Elain,” the shopgirl answers, and thus she is Elain, the summer flower, the fragrant breeze swept up in a dress of sunflowers.  

“Elain,” Amren repeats, tasting the name in her mouth. “Elain. From the Arthurian legends, Elain the fair, Elain the lovable. What a responsibility such a name must be.” Amren’s fingertips linger, brushing Elain’s cool jaw and neck. “You wear it well.”

“A-And yourself?”

“Amren,” she answers, laughing. “A boy’s name. So perhaps my parents made the same mistake as well.”

Elain laughs too, the sound as light and pleasing as the girl herself. Amongst the claustrophobic heat and selfishness of the city, the flowerchild is as rare as any gemstone. Naturally, Amren wants her.

“How much for all your stock?” Amren asks quietly, leaning close. They stand on the boulevard pavement, two conjoined figures still amongst the bustle of the crowds. Unnoticed, unobserved; more the loss for the tourists. Amren will happily steal this girl from their hungry eyes. She has never been one to share.

“I’m sorry, what do you-”

“How much for every flower you have? All of them. I’d like to have them delivered up to my apartment tomorrow.” What’s the point of amassing your own personal fortune if you can’t show it off every now and then to charming bambi-esque girls in flowershops?

Elain blinks, her lips parting to form a question she does not yet know how to word. It doesn’t matter; Amren will take care of everything. “I’ll leave you my billing details now. And then, Elain the fair, I wish to take you out of this dire heat up to my apartment. There, I have a private garden, which I should like to get your stylistic input on.” She takes Elain’s hand in her own as if she is proposing. “Will you, Elain the fair, consent to being my own private florist when I have need of one? Which, given the many formal business occasions and celebrations I host, is often.”

For all the innocence and naivety her dishevelled appearance might imply, Elain is an efficient businesswoman. She has a contract drawn up and signed within half an hour, along with documenting Amren’s billing details. “I didn’t know you were a part of Dream Court corporations,” She notes in passing, which Amren should really pick up on, but she is too busy devouring the shopgirl with her eyes. It’s the heat, all the heat. Her sex drive, like the weather, is on fire.

Amren leads Elain through the streets back to her apartment by the hand, slipping in between the commotion of tourists, who suddenly seem much more laughable now, so irrelevant, so dull and harmless. They gawp at buildings and coo over manufactured ‘handmade’ trinkets whilst missing the real prize passing through their midst. The prize, the hart of the hunt Amren had not known she was on, seems quite content to be led, if a little bewildered by the sudden turn of events. Good. Amren could do with a little more bewilderment in this oppressive heat.

Reaching the foyer of the apartment building brings relief, the air conditioning welcoming them in. The sheen of sweat on their skins cools and prickles goosebumps over Elain’s exposed forearms, which she holds crossed over her chest to fend off the way the doorman is leering at her cleavage. Amren makes a mental note to arrange to have him fired. The only person she has ever encountered who can make lechery charming is Cassian, and that is solely because they all know he makes such jokes at his own expense.

The building is in the expensive part of town and it shows, the foyer all white marble and gold motifs, mimicking the classier memories of the 1950’s. Amren notes that Elain does not gawp at the finery - her doe-eyes rest solely on Amren, watching, waiting. Amren has been waiting all summer for someone like this. They both shall wait no longer.

“Amren-” Elain begins, as she steps into the elevator. She does not finish - she does not get the chance. Amren has her pinned to the back mirrored wall in a heartbeat. Her mouth crushes into Elain’s, pulling, tugging, drinking down the kisses like slithers of water in the desert. Neither care that the doorman and receptionist can see them through the closing steel doors. Let them watch. Finally, something electric is happening that summer. The pot has boiled over. Amren intends to go all out in the explosion.

“Beautiful, beautiful girl,” She murmurs into Elain’s lips. She is smaller than the flowergirl, but it is easy to keep her pressed flush against the back of the elevator when she makes no attempt at resistance; Instead she falls back, welcoming the ravishment. Amren expected shyness, prudish, coy games, and persuasion. She finds none of it. “Who are you, flowergirl?” She asks, pausing in her kisses to study those big brown eyes for answers. “And where have you been hiding all this summer?”

Elain doesn’t blush - instead she runs her fingers through the shaven rash of black hair dusting the nape of Amren’s neck and pulls her closer, back into the kiss, begging to be drowned in kisses all the more. Wordlessly, she offers herself for consumption whole. She is a creature born of a sun-stroke induced fever dream, a daylight fantasy, a fiction made to be kept safe betwixt the pages of a harlequin novel. Yet here she is, made flesh and blood and panting.

And what kind of a businesswoman would Amren be were she to pass up such an opportunity as this?

She’s on her knees right after halting the elevator. The operator’s crackling voice sounds out the speakers, inquiring as to what the issue is. Neither of the women reply, though Elain whimpers as the other dips beneath her skirt and licks across her clit. The operator swears, and mumbles something about the heat turning everyone into animals. A red light blinks on the security camera in the top right corner. It’s in the perfect position to witness the mischievous schoolgirl smile Elain flashes its way.

She can’t hold the smile for long though, for soon all her muscles are melting and twitching at the mercy of the tongue encircling her sex. The hot, swollen bundle of nerves tucked between her legs derail her limbs into incompetence, till her knees are weak and she has to hold onto the railing that runs around the elevator walls just to stay upright. In the confined space, her deep, exhaling moans reverberate off of the close surfaces. Every wall a mirror, they reflect her own flushed, shaking, overloaded body back to her at six different angles, so she can watch, so she can see just how undone she becomes. She sees herself fall apart, and laughs.

A summer fever dream. What else could all this be?

Her legs threaten to buckle under her, but before they get the chance Amren pushes her up so that her tiptoes only just brush the ground, pulling her thighs to wrap tight around her neck and shoulders. She giggles again, the noise spiking up two octaves as Amren presses her tongue hard and firm across her clit in a way that speaks volumes of her past experience with ravishing young ladies. The thought clenches Elain’s muscles even tighter.

Beneath the sky-blue fabric fields of sunflowers, Amren relents and nuzzles her slicked lips across Elain’s abdomen, blowing soft, warm air against her navel. She bites lazily at her belly, the ample flesh giving way gorgeously to her teeth and tongue, plush and sensitive as the flowergirl shivers bone-deep, her clit begging to reclaim the attention. “But do you taste of flowers, sweet girl?” Amren muses lazily, two fingertips ringing the outside of her vagina in teasing, testing, sliding the seeping wetness up across her clit, then down across her asscheeks, kneeding them so slowly it draws forth Elain’s most frustrated groan yet.

She doesn’t have time to whimper, however. She is ordered to remove the dress, and does so all too eagerly. Perhaps it is the cramped, unventilated space, but the throbbing heat of the summer seems to have leaked back into their shelter, and she finds without the cool damp of the dress she is baking alive. Rivulets of sweat run down the small of her back from where her flesh is pressed against the mirror. She is dizzy with heat, dizzy with arousal, dizzy with the surreal rabbit hole she has fallen into. Dizzy with desire for the tongue that now leans in and licks the entrance to her pussy.

One hand must be freed from the railing to grip her own hair as Elain tries not to come instantly. It- fuck. “Amren. Amren. Amren,” she moans over and over, as if calling the witch by name will somehow make the enchantment more bearable. The spell has taken hold, however; she stands no chance. Amren pushes her tongue deep within her, exploring the ridges and edges and soft grooves within her, setting the nerve endings within alight. Intolerable in the raging heat, her insides become fire.

She comes with a sob, so overwhelmed, so totally undone and disorientated by heat and lust, that she is capable of little else. “Oh,” she sighs, tears on her scarlet cheeks. “Amren.”

Summoned, Amren rises, slipping through Elain’s legs to move them from her shoulders to instead wrap around her waist. She is not strong enough to carry her over the threshold into her apartment, but she can keep her like this for a moment of sanity, amongst the watchful mirrors and cameras and static voices that all seem so divorced from reality.

“Divine,” she says softly, stroking Elain’s hair, which clings to the form of a bun with the barest scraps of integrity. Taking pity on it, Amren pulls free the hair tie holding the charade together and tosses it aside, letting her hair fall loose across her shoulders.

“You witch.” Elain looks back at her, no insult in her tone or expression, though Amren would prefer there to be a degree more awe there in its place. She’ll just have to do better.

“Please,” Amren says, smirking in ways that would put the devil himself to shame. “Mere parlour tricks. Let me show you the real craft.” The elevator doors finally open to her apartment, and with a smile that promises the world, she leads the naked girl inside.

 

***

They stand around Amren’s kitchen unit, leaning against counters and sipping the freshly opened, refrigerated chardonnay she’s been drinking like it’s water all summer. Surround sound came all pre-installed with the apartment, and it plays a muted lofi station that tells tales of hazy morning sex and self-indulgent pleasures through the cyclic, probing rhythms and trails of whispered words.

Comfortable, they drink rather than speak. Elain watches the scarce wisps of cloud crawl through the sky surrounding them, studying the furniture and decor. Her calm expression betrays no infatuation with the displays of wealth, although she smiles in amusement at the novelty of the real polar bear skin spread before the fireplace.

The space is wide, open, and side. Amren had some dreadfully fashionable interior designers assemble it for her, thus it’s all deftly coordinated, and filled with clever little touches such as the wine rack that hangs in cylinders from the ceiling like a chandelier, the neon filaments threaded along the kitchen cupboards that light up whenever they detect movement in the near vicinity. Save for their ice blue colouring, everything is white, or embossed with black, starkly drained of colour. Amongst it all, Elain is juxtaposed against her background, the contrast framing her pleasingly.

“Shall I show you the gardens?” Amren asks, her smile and tone more truthful than her words, for it is obvious she intends to do no such thing. Why waste a perfectly good afternoon with conversation?

Elain smiles, but the expression does not meet her eyes. She cradles her wine glass to her chest. “Amren,” she says, looking up at her through her lashes, all suddenly shy as if she hasn’t just been eaten out publicly in the elevator. “What is this?”

“Define ‘this’.”

“What we’re doing. This- this invitation of yours.”

Stretching herself out like a cat awakening from a good long nap, Amren sets down her drink. “Exactly what I said it was. I would like for you to become my own personal florist for formal occasions. But that is for the future. I refuse to do business on a day like this.” She crosses the small distance between them and slips her arms either side of Elain’s plush body, resting her hands on the counter behind her. “I hoped to set aside this afternoon for seducing you. But we can talk details first if we must.” She smirks slyly. “I make exceptions for the beautiful.”

The flattery does not have the desired effect; instead of melting like putty in her hand, Elain fidgets, barely concealing a frown. “I- I guessed all that. But.. what does this afternoon mean? If we do all that, will this be it or...”  

“I’d advise against getting attached,” Amren answers coolly, pulling back. She does not wish to waste the flowergirl’s time. It would be logical if one born from a fairytale would expect a fairytale ending, of roses and marriage and happily ever afters. “I have no interest in romance or love or relationships as most know them.”

“So this would be it?” Elain asks, yet her voice is not soured with the petulance Amren has heard from so many before her. A smile that can be described as nothing but cute plays upon the flower’s lips. “Because… I don’t think it’s fair really. Making my first time so spectacular, then leaving me to make do with the rest of the world for the rest of my life. How will anything else ever compare?”

“Your first time,” Amren echos, eyebrows raising. This flower reveals more surprises by the second. She nods in confirmation.

Finishing her wine, the crisp, light notes of the aftertaste complementing the lingering taste of Elain’s cunt perfectly, Amren considers for a moment before her coy smirk returns. “This need not be the only time, if you’d like.” There is at least a month left until the heat goes out of the summer. The idea of facing that force alone any longer holds little attraction. “I wasn’t being theatrical when I said I do not do love or girlfriends. But I would love dearly for you to consider being my companion, till the summer’s out at least.” She steps closer, lowering her voice.

“You’d live here with me, and accompany me on travel, to parties, to destinations, to private rooms hired solely for the purpose of undressing you. I’d wine and dine and clothe you, take care of your every need, and we’d commandeer the elevator as often as we saw fit. You’d have no need for work or finances - though I will pay you for any labour you perform during the time spent with me. It would be a month of unabashed indulgence.” She ran the pad of her thumb across the glossed surface of Elain’s lower lip. “I would so delight in spoiling you.”

“Isn’t this all a little ‘fifty shades’?” She asks, though she doesn’t sound as repulsed as some have in the past. Amren laughs.

“I have no interest in inflicting harm upon your gift of a body. Nor would you be signing contracts of secrecy and eternal consent. Tell whomever you like. The papers do so love to gossip about me, but I’m rather effective at silencing anything too juicy. And besides that, you are free to leave whenever you so choose. It will not affect our business arrangement. I will hold no grudge against you, nor seek any form of revenge. Such things don’t interest me with someone such as yourself. I have far more deserving people to save my machinations for.”

“Your life sounds so exciting,” Elain says, teasing. Amren has not often been teased before, and never by blushing shop girls. She thought she’d hate it. She was wrong.

“Hardly. It is mostly waiting around and biding time to make the right move. Sometimes though, something worthwhile comes along.” She curls a lock of brown hair around her finger to highlight her point. The terms are laid bare. All that’s left is judgement.

“Amren,” Elain says, dropping her gaze for a moment to steady herself before meeting the other’s eyes, “I think I’d rather like to be spoiled.” The music overhead drops to silence for a moment, as if it too is processing what this means, what this promises.

“Oh sweet flower,” Amren sighs with a smile, “how you shall be.”

Just like that, it’s settled, nervous for the inexperienced, a well-worn yet fresh beginning for the other. They finish off the wine between them, Elain flushed and giggly by the bottom of the bottle whilst Amren appears unaffected. Mumbling about double standards to herself, Elain addresses the tragedy of Amren still being fully dressed, unbuttoning the tailored shirt she wears and clumsily drawing it off of her body. In place of a bra she wears a silk slip, which she removes herself, unwaveringly confident in exposing her small pert breasts, her dark, erect nipples. She blames the wine.

“You’re like something from another world,” Elain says, regarding her as if she were a work of art, yet she can’t help but reply sharply,

“You think me exotic? This city is not so white for that.”

“I didn’t mean that.” Elain shakes her head, and her complete lack of embarrassment makes Amren think she’s speaking the truth. “Not like that. You’re like something out of a fantasy novel. Someone from a whole other realm.”

Amren laughs. “My tits have never before inspired such poetry.”

For a moment the sexual tension is broken as they both crack up, Elain clutching her stomach as even Amren has to lean against the countertops to support herself. “You’re not so untouchable after all,” Elain muses once she’s caught her breath, eyes so warm, smile so warm, somehow still pleasant in the intensified heat of the apartment-turned-greenhouse. There’s hesitancy there, however, as if she fears such a comment will flare a temper in her new ‘companion’. No rage comes, only a truly wicked grin as Amren catches her wrist and pulls her into her embrace.

“You can touch me all you like, fair flower.” Stroking her hair, her beck, the invisible downy fuzz of her lower back, she can barely hold herself back. “I certainly intend to do the same.”

Their kissing is tipsy and clumsy and almost silly - they can’t stop snickering and Elain keeps whispering ‘poetry boobs’ under her breath, shrieking in delight when Amren pinches her ass to scold her. “I can already tell you’re going to be a handful,” she observes wryly, shaking her head when Elain just bats her eyelashes with pride and an angelic smile. Since the elevator, the wine, the air conditioning, she has flared to life, a flower in bloom from the bud she was. Amren wants to pry her open and reach between the folds of her petals to draw forth the nectar; she wants more, she wants all of it, to get drunk on it, high on intoxication. On her. The flowergirl.

“Enough,” she says softly, calmly, and the tone changes instantaneously, the humor vanishing. She undoes her shorts and steps out of them, kicking them aside; Elain inhales sharply when it is revealed she was going commando the whole time, the big reveal. “Come.”

Leading Elain outside, she ignores the pool and gardens in favour of leading her over to the colourless glass railing that encircles the rooftop. Elain, in all her naked glory, rests her hands atop the banister and leans out into the wind, a breeze omnipresent this high up so that the curls of her hair whip idly around her head, flirting across her neck.

Around them, the city sprawls in all directions, the outlines of buildings and streets all blurred by the mirage created by the heat. The tourists have invaded in such sheer volumes that their noise, no matter how distant, cannot be escaped entirely, but for one afternoon it is dominated instead by a street parade playing lively festival music, mexican judging by the instruments and costumes, local judging by the lack of accompanying salesmen shouting about their plastic wares. There is a happiness to the singing, the dancing, that feels almost too coincidental, as if it is to announce the beginning of the real summer.

“I wonder if they can see us,” Elain thinks aloud, her breasts cushioned atop her folded arms. Pressed flush against her backside, Amren slips her arms around her waist and drags her fingertips up and down her generous belly. The figures down below are but blurs of colour, yet similar highrise constructions surround them, flats and offices and all. From the upper floors, it would be easy to spot them.

Elain starts to say something else, absently filling the silence, but her words are swallowed whole when Amren’s fingers, shameless explorers, dip down between her legs and push between soft folds to explore her girl-interior. Her movements slow, languid, she eases in like a knife through butter, tender against hot thick muscle. “What will you do with me?” Elain asks, her voice deep, strained, holding back a moan to grasp at some illusion of her fading self-control.

“Oh flower, the question should be what won’t I do with you?” Amren purrs, sliding in another finger to ease her open, wider, deeper. “You are filled with so much promise.”

And she lives up to it. The afternoon is a blur of pulsating heat from bodies and sun alike. They consecrate the decking with their orgasms, explore the garden through one another’s lips and touches, dip into the pool only to fuck beneath the waters. Elain begs for a break and goes to shower in the apartment, but when she emerges, freshly washed and dried, to the sight of Amren in white lace lingerie stretched upon the white rug of a polar bear fur, she finds her libido reborn once more.

Evening falls and they watch the sunset sipping champagne and listening to Nina Simone croon into the darkness. Amren has brought out blankets and pillows for them to spend the night sleeping beneath the stars amongst the roses, the air so hot and humid they barely need any of it.

Side by side, wrist to wrist, hip to hip, the lie back and look up at the full moon, crisp against the burnt amber hues. “Full moon,” Elain whispers, “a herald of madness.”

“Dear Luna can mean many things,” Amren says, her fingetips lazily drifting circles across the soft plush of Elain’s stomach. “The Goddess of femininity. Mother Moon.” She smirks. “A staple piece of witchcraft, which seems quite befitting.”

“I am enchanted,” Elain agrees softly, staring at her strange new companion. Half-shy, half-bold, she smiles. “I think I shall be quite happy here.”  


	2. Saline

The heatwave breaks two weeks later, the aggression draining out of the sun’s rays to leave the atmosphere pleasantly warm, stirred by a shy, romantic sort of breeze. The baked wildflowers and thriving farmland leave the air saturated with the thick, cloying smell of pollen and sweetness, so that just going outside feels like stepping into a freshly aggravated dust storm. The city is fat with scent, bloated with humidity. In short: insufferable.

It is for this very reason that Amren sweeps into Elain’s bedroom in the early morning, throws open her curtains, and announces, “We are going to the beach.” The sleeping Elain is not so appreciative of the rude awakening, pulling her covers - baby pink with rose decals sprawling across the fabric - up over her head. Amren has learned she is not so becoming in the mornings, but she has her ways of getting what she wants. 

Crawling across the bed, she slips under the covers from the foot of the bed, and sneaks up upon her lover, dipping between her thighs. A hot, seeking tongue is enough to stir sleeping beauty. She giggles, and launches a pillow at her attacker. Throws off the sheets, and pulls her into a kiss. Sighs happily as deft fingers stroke her hair. 

Following a delighted tumble in the bedsheets, Elain nibbles the pain au raisins brought in on a tray for her, Amren fetches a smooth, rectangular box of white, tied with a baby blue bow, and presents it to her. Within, wrapped in tissue paper, is a very revealing backless dress, blue to match the bow, all floaty skirts and waifish material, satin smooth to the touch and light as a feather. Elain strokes it fondly, frowning. “It seems a shame to waste it on the sand.”

“I’ll buy you another one, if you like,” Amren says in dismissal, leaning over and pecking her on the lips. 

This attitude of blasé wealth is one that Elain is slowly adjusting to, yet she still finds a queer, sick feeling weighing heavy in her stomach whenever it arises. In the beginning, it was easy just to surrender to the idea of being taken care of, lavishing in pure decadence. Now though, they’ve been kissing and fucking and drinking for two weeks. She isn’t sure what that means.  

It’s not like she doesn’t enjoy it. When Amren leads her down to the apartment building’s garage, she is just as enchanted as when she first met this witch of a woman. Gone are the androgynous shirt and shorts of when they met, replaced today with a tight, chic white sundress. Brown leather ankle boots work miracles to give the tiny woman legs for days. But what once was all heady, reckless arousa for Elain now draws back to a growing curiosity, the instinct to learn and understand. To decipher the logic ruling this mysterious being, who might as well be from another dimension she is so foreign in her outlook to Elain.

Still, Elain is young and easily made vain; she stops pondering the complexities of human character the minute Amren presses her keys and a roofless red sports car blinks in response. “This is too much,” Elain, who has never cared about cars in her life before now, whispers, stroking her fingertips across the shiny, apple red paint job. 

“Know why they seem so sexy?” Amren asks, from where she has already slipped into the cream leather driver’s seat, her tiny hands caressing the steering wheel. “They’re modelled after a woman’s womb.”

“That is the gayest thing I’ve ever heard.” Elain laughs, sliding into the seat beside her. “Only you would own a car like this.” 

Saying nothing, Amren just presses her lips together and smiles in a very strange, awfully knowing way. “We have to make a stop along the way,” she says as the garage door rolls up to reveal the blue sky, streaked with lazy, half-formed cloud trails. “I thought I’d introduce you to my dog.”

“You have a dog?” She always struck Elain as more of a cat person, fiercely independent and defiant of any rules, yet at the same time she can imagine her rigorously training a compliant creature to obey her in the absolute. “What, does it have a home of its own too?”

“Something like that.” Her knowing smile has not faded. It worries Elain more than it should do. 

Instead of cruising out of town, towards the coast, they delve deeper into the smog of hay fever pollen and cooling pavement, passing the cherry red tourists as they shuffle and scratch dolefully at their peeling skin. Elain spies her flower shop, now being diligently attended to by one of her lover’s loyal minions. She finds herself missing it, the endless days of aimlessly rearranging displays and charming passersby into purchasing a little something for their loved ones. It was an easier existence, and yet attractive as it seems, she cannot bring herself to return. There are still too many delights to sample and mysteries to uncover here, in the deceptive shiny perfection of cream leather seats and pretty little sundresses. 

They slow and pull to a halt outside an apartment block, hemmed in by a whole street of identical buildings. Brown brick, fire escapes, and rainbow laundry give it a kind of wild life despite the generic living quarters, and from somewhere up above, an old recording of ‘St James Infirmary’ drifts out an open window across the street. Two women shriek with laughter across of it. The end effect leaves Elain feeling slightly homesick, though she has no idea why.

Beside her, Amren’s thumbs tap away at her phone, she chuckles, and then tosses it onto the backseat. She now wears a pair of jet black ray-bans, so Elain can no longer tell if she is studying her, or waiting for the dog to appear at the front door. 

Her discomfort is replaced entirely by shock, however, when a man glides out of the door, leans across her, and kisses Amren squarely on the lips. He is black, with gorgeous pastel braids of white, violet, and milky blue clipped into his hair. Pastel tye-dye cropped chinos lie low-slung on his gorgeously shapely hips, and a lacey white crop-top hugs his overtly well-defined torso. He is gorgeous, painfully so, and devastatingly fashionable. As Elain watches them kiss, it hurts to look at him. Then she notices the lavender dog collar around his neck. 

“He’s your dog,” she blurts in realisation, because heavens, that should have been obvious. 

“Well deduced, flower,” Amren praises her warmly, petting the man’s jaw before pushing him off, ignoring him in favour of Elain as he vaults himself into the backseat. “This is Varian. He’s been mine for nearly a year now.”

“But perhaps not for much longer,” Varian teases, and dear god, even his voice is beguiling, low and velvety like dark honey. “She’s never ignored me for this long. Just what  _ have _ you been doing to her, Elain?” He is smiling warmly at her, his eyes - bright blue, so bright she is certain they are contacts - silencing any sour venom she’d wanted to spit at him. Suddenly the fear and jealousy is gone. In that smile, she knows that they are not competitors, but kin. Both are at Amren’s mercy. And all too quickly, she finds she adores him. 

“Seducing me, quite ruthlessly,” Amren quips, rubbing Elain’s shoulder as if she can sense the previously overwhelming insecurity. But Elain is too charmed by this fairy of a man, grinning back at him impishly. 

“I don’t believe a word of it,” he says, laughing.    
“She’s like a dog in heat,” Elain says in a conspiratorial whisper. Her fingers find the leather tied around neck, twisting and turning the tag with ‘Varian’ engraved upon the silver. “I like your collar.”

“As do I. That’s why I never take it off. And why I suppose I can forgive two weeks of neglect.  _ Especially _ if it was because of someone as lovely as you.” 

Amren seems just as surprised as Elain herself is by how much and how quickly she finds herself liking this man, and in fact she makes them drive back to stop outside her shop. She dashes in, and then returns with a crown wreathed from white and pink roses, which she places neatly atop Varian’s braids.   

They drive to the coast with the warm breeze blowing through their hair, listening to Varian’s own lofi mix, which is all music Elain has never before heard blended together, and she can’t understand a word of it, but in the heat it is oddly relaxing. She learns that Varian is a tech whizz kid and head of security at one of Amren’s top rival businesses, that they met at a business do where they were both pretending to be ‘normal’, and yet the moment they met they both sensed a certain…  _ inclination _ in one another. And they’d been fucking ever since. 

“Other people have also been involved from time to time,” Amren explains, when Elain asks how this ‘poly’ thing works. “Varian always knows about them. He likes the stories. Sometimes he’s joined in with them. 

“She has good taste,” he supplies thoughtfully from the back. 

“But he’s been the only long term playmate. Until you.”

“How long is long term?” Elain asks, because once she’d never believed this would last more than a week, but here Varian is with a year of madness under his belt. 

“However long it works for the both of us. Certainly, we’ve still had to work out a few issues between us.”

“Like that time you thought it was ‘totally fine’ to invite me over  _ without _ telling me about the orgy of six Royal Ballet Dancers you had over.”

“But if on the whole we’re happy, we keep seeing each other. Above all, we’re friends, and we’re honest.” She looks over at Elain. “Does that sound like something you’d be interested in trying?”

“Yes. Very much so. But… how do you stop from getting… you know, jealous?”

“Sometimes you don’t.” Varian shrugs. “But I’m not her pet because I expect her only to be with me. I like the times we spend together. I like that she has other people other than me. I trust her enough to be with other people, and to be honest with me about it and about us. And when I’m jealous, I tell her. We talk it out.” He laughs. “Must sound boring to you, but it’s really just a lot of talking and listening.”

“It sounds romantic, I think.” Elain wants someone to come back to her time and again and tell her about the people they’ve fucked, about the wonders they’ve experienced, and put on hold to return to her arms, her bed. To communicate like that. Whatever it is that these two alien people share, she wants to be a part of it. “I’d like to try, if you’ll have me.”

“Darling Flower,” Amren sighs from the wheel. “You’re already here.”


End file.
